Five Days (20 page)

‘Then he got lucky. A logger came upon him at dawn. At this point, Billy had completely run out of food, and besides being starved and suffering from exposure, he was also delirious. He had locked all the car doors, and wouldn't open them when the logger kept slamming his fist against the window, trying to get Billy to allow himself to be rescued. But Billy was so out of it that he refused to open the door. That's when the logger drove off and returned around four hours later – that's how isolated the spot was – with the state police. Again they tried to convince Billy to open the door and let them help him. This time, seeing the men in uniform, he became irrational. Refused to unlock the door. Started screaming abuse at the officers. When they finally had to jimmy open the door with a crowbar, he turned violent. So violent that they had to subdue him. After they'd handcuffed him, he still went crazy in the back of the squad car, and they drove him to the nearest doctor, who administered such a strong tranquilizer that Billy was under for over twenty-four hours.

‘When he awoke he found himself in the big state psychiatric hospital in Bangor. Dwight had gotten the call from the state police up in Aroostook County. Great friend that he is, he insisted on driving me up there. When we arrived at the hospital – a big Victorian place, somewhat modernized inside, but still pretty damn formidable and unnerving – Billy was in the secure wing. In an isolated cell. I was able to visit him. He looked so emaciated and rough from all those days freezing in that car. Unwilling to talk to me, though at one point crying wildly when I told him how much I loved him. But when I attempted to comfort him by putting my arms around him he went ballistic, throwing a punch at me – which I fortunately dodged – then hurling himself against a wall before barricading himself in the little bathroom. Four staff members – big, tough guys – came rushing in and ordered me and Dwight out while they subdued my son. Now Dwight – besides being my oldest friend – is also the king of plain talkers. After that incident in Billy's room he marched me over to the nearest bar, insisted I have a double Jack Daniel's to settle my nerves, then gave it to me straight: “Your son is in a very bad place – and after what's happened there's no way the state is going to let him out onto the street for a very long time.”'

‘Where was his mother at this moment?'

‘At her sister's in Auburn, awaiting my call.'

‘Why didn't she accompany you to Bangor?'

‘When I told her over the phone what had happened she started to cry like I never heard her cry before. I said that it was probably best for all concerned if I went alone with Dwight up to the psychiatric hospital. She didn't disagree with me.'

‘But she did eventually see him?'

‘You don't think much of her, do you?'

This comment caught me unawares – especially as its tone was so defensive.

‘I am just responding to what you've reported to me about her.'

‘She's not that bad.'

‘I believe you.'

‘Even though I've painted her as a bad mother?'

‘Richard . . . your marriage is your business. And I would never dream of making a value judgment about—'

‘I didn't mean to snap at you like that.'

‘That was hardly snapping. Your story is a terrible one.'

‘It's not my story, it's
his
story.'

‘But you are his father.'

‘I know, I know. As you can imagine, life's never been the same since all this happened. Muriel went to see him with me around a week after that first incident at the psychiatric hospital. We first had a meeting with his psycho-pharmacologist. He told us that he had switched Billy onto Paxil – it's a form of Prozac – and though it was early days, he seemed to be responding to the new medication. When we saw him that afternoon – it was in very controlled circumstances, with two burly male nurses in attendance, just in case things got out of hand – he seemed really animated and upbeat and happy to see us both. Promising us that he was going to “beat this thing” and would be entering CalTech as planned that autumn. We had both agreed in advance that we'd say nothing to him about the rescinded admissions offer or the fact that his disappearance had been a two-week media event. But poor Muriel almost broke down at that point. When we got back to the car she buried her head in my shoulder and cried for a good ten minutes. Later, on the drive south, her composure regained, she turned to me, all glacial, and said: “That boy's lost to us now.”

‘Of course I didn't believe that. I told myself:
Look at how he's rebounded since they put him on the new medication
. I started scheming of ways to get him into a good college come autumn. I didn't give up on him.

‘Then, forty-eight hours later, there was another call from the state hospital. Billy had gone berserk the previous night. Out of nowhere he'd gotten violent. Punched and bitten one of the guards. Tried to slam his head through a window. Had to be tranquilized and subdued – and was now in their version of solitary confinement. I wanted to run back up to Bangor immediately, but Dwight counseled me to stay put.

Days went by. The director of the psychiatric hospital then called me. All very concerned. All very
mea culpa
. It turned out the psycho-pharmacologist had completely misdiagnosed Billy, as it was now clear that he was bipolar. I discovered by asking around, if you put someone who is bipolar on Paxil they light up like a Christmas tree. No wonder the poor boy had those manic episodes.'

‘So they switched his medication?'

‘Yes – and put him on Lithium. The thing is, because of his attack on the state police officer, and because of his explosions at the hospital, the state decided to press for ongoing incarceration. I asked my lawyer to see if we could make a case against the hospital for misdiagnosis and putting him on the sort of medication that turned him psychotic. The lawyer got me in touch with a criminal attorney down in Portland. The guy charged nearly four hundred dollars an hour. He told me that if I was willing to spend twenty grand, they could mount a case against the state. But he felt the state would win out in the end, as Billy was already violent and unstable before he'd been wrongly put on Paxil. I took out a loan against my house – something Muriel truly objected to – and we mounted the case. And we lost. Even on Lithium, Billy was still showing signs of serious mental disturbance. The state had all the cards. The state was granted the right to lock Billy away in that hospital until such a time as they considered him fit for reintegration into society.'

Is there any chance of that happening
? I felt like asking, though I already knew the answer. Again clearly reading my thoughts Richard said:

‘But that will not happen anytime soon. Because in addition to his bipolar diagnosis, he was subsequently classified as a dangerous schizophrenic. And now –
now
– there's that phone call from the state hospital an hour ago. For the first time in four months he was allowed back in the common living area that is shared by the other male patients on his ward. A fight broke out and he stabbed someone in the throat with a pencil.'

‘Is the man all right?'

‘The wound was a superficial one, according to the psychiatric head of the unit where Billy is kept. But this means that my son is back in solitary confinement. And the chances of him being let out again in the foreseeable future . . .'

He broke off and put his face in his hands. I reached over and put my hand again on his arm. This time he did not pull away.

‘Of course I called his mother as soon as I heard the news from the hospital. And I told you her response. “He's lost now forever.”'

‘Do you believe that?' I asked.

‘I don't want to believe that. But . . .'

Silence.

‘If you have to run up to the hospital now . . .' I said.

‘My son is back in solitary confinement. Which means no visitors. The resident psychiatrist told me that they would be keeping him isolated until they felt he was stabilized. The last time this happened, it was eight weeks before we could see him. The only reason I told you earlier I had to run was because I didn't think I could face recounting all this to you. And you've been so kind, so patient, so . . .'

The waiter was back at the table, all smiles. Richard withdrew his arm from my grasp.

‘So . . . any thoughts about brunch?' the waiter asked.

‘We still need a few minutes,' I said, and the waiter headed elsewhere. As soon as he was out of earshot I whispered to Richard:

‘Please go if you need to.'

‘Where would I go to?
Where?
' he asked. ‘But if, after hearing all this, you want to run off . . .'

‘Now why would I want to do that?'

‘You sure about that?'

‘I'm sure about that.'

‘Thank you.'

‘No, thank you.'

‘For what?'

‘For telling me about your son.'

‘Even though it's a terrible story?'

‘Especially because it's a terrible story.'

Silence. Then Richard said:

‘There are moments in life when one really needs a second drink.'

To which I could only reply:

‘Good idea.'

WE DRANK THE
second round of bloody marys. We ate the omelets that we ordered. We didn't mention the subject of Richard's son again during the course of the brunch. I would have continued the conversation about Billy, as there was so much I wanted to ask Richard about – especially when it came to finding a legal way through this nightmare story. Surely there's a way of exploring other forms of treatment for him. Though he'd had violent episodes, he had not actually broken any laws – which had to mean there was some way for him to be in a form of managed care that was not state-sanctioned incarceration. And (this was the mother in me talking) surely heaven and earth could still be moved to rescue this boy from such an ongoing horror show.

But Richard had spent serious money on a lawyer. Unlike his wife he was not giving up hope. Though Muriel really did sound unable to cope with Billy's monstrous illness, I knew it was wrong to judge her reportedly distanced reaction to her son's mental collapse. That's the thing about other people's tragedies. You can stand on the sidelines and make all sorts of pronouncements about how they should be handled. But in doing so you forget an essential truth: there is no appropriate way to react to the worst that life can throw at you. To attempt to impose your own so-called ‘game plan' on a nightmare that you yourself aren't living is the height of heinous arrogance. That's why we find other people's tragedies so compulsive: because they so terrify us; because we all privately live with the knowledge that, at any moment, the entire trajectory of our lives can be upended by the most terrible and unforeseen forces.

But getting us off the subject of his son and onto my own children, he now got me talking about Sally and her considerable adolescent heartaches.

‘Maybe this Brad guy dumping her will make her consider looking beyond status when it comes to choosing the next boyfriend,' he said. ‘But let me ask you something. Is Brad's father Ted Bingham, the lawyer fellow?'

‘Sometimes the world is just too small.'

‘Especially when it comes to Maine.'

‘And yes, his dad is indeed Damariscotta's big-cheese lawyer – though I might have just uttered an oxymoron.'

Richard smiled, then added:

‘Of course, had you said, “Damariscotta's big-headed lawyer”, you might have stood accused of uttering a tautology.'

‘Well, Ted Bingham has the reputation of being both big-headed and very
grand fromage
. Don't tell me you insure him?'

‘Hardly. He works with Phil Malloy, who has basically cornered the Damariscotta insurance market.'

‘Tell me about it. Phil insures our home and cars.'

‘That's Maine. And the reason I know Ted Bingham is because his wife was at school with Muriel in Lewiston.'

‘That's Maine again – and, of course, I've met the famous Julie Bingham.'

‘Hard to believe she ever grew up—'

‘—somewhere other than Palm Beach,' I said.

‘Or the Hamptons.'

‘Or Park Avenue.'

‘Still, that big place they have on the coast by Pemaquid Point—'

‘—is my dream location,' I said. ‘And I now feel so tacky for being so catty about Julie.'

‘But she is one of those people who invites cattiness.'

‘I'm afraid I know all about that. Sally actually once heard Julie on the phone with a friend, telling her: “Now I think Brad's girlfriend is a cutey . . . but it's a shame her parents are struggling.”'

‘And you worry about being catty about her. Sometimes people deserve cattiness. Especially when they look down their long noses at everyone else. And I'm certain that your daughter saw right through Julie's
noblesse oblige
act.'

‘If only Sally understood what
noblesse oblige
was. She's so bright and so intuitively smart. But she underestimates her own intelligence, and is so bound up in the superficial . . . even though I'm sure that, privately, she sees that this pursuit of the shallow is an empty one.'

‘Then she'll hopefully move away from it all once Young Mr Bingham goes off to his Ivy League college.'

‘That is my great hope. But as you well know, when it comes to children, you can never really shield them from danger or themselves.'

‘That still doesn't lessen the sense of guilt that accompanies being a parent . . .'

‘True. But even if I keep telling you that Billy's bipolar condition has no connection whatsoever to anything you've done as a father – and, in fact, from what you've reported, you've been the parent who has always been there for him . . .'